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moments., after I'd emerged from my anti-war imbro-
glio (forgive the phrase, it amuses me), when I felt not
unnaturally upset at the idea of returning to the good
old trenches, though I did what I could to sublimate
that "great adventure" into something splendid. The
whole business was now safely settled and the date of
my medical board was early in November. Rivers
had made an expedition to London on my behalf,,
had interviewed two influential personages, and had
obtained the required guarantee that no obstacles
would be placed in my road back to regions where
bombs, mustard-gas, box-barrages, and similar enjoy*
ments were awaiting me.

He showed me a letter from one of them (a devoted
"public servant" with whom I'd often played cricket
in the old days, and whom no one but a maniac could
possibly have disliked) in which the writer referred to
me (in collaboration with his typist) as "our poor
friend", which thereafter became our favourite term
for alluding to me.

In weaker moments, as I said before, "our poor
friend" somewhat bleakly realized what he had let
himself in for, and, without actually wishing he
hadn't done it, felt an irrepressible hankering for
some sort of reprieve. Since mid-October mental de-
tachment had been made easier by my having been
given a small room to myself—an insidious privilege
which allowed me to ruminate without interruption*
Bad weather prevented me from playing golf all day
and every day, and my brain became more active in
the evenings. I spent ambrosial hours with favourite
authors, and a self-contained, "dug-in" state of mind

My temperamental tendency to day-dreaming
asserted itself and I realized how much I craved for